Of Sight and Sound
by lena1987
Summary: He cannot be seen, she will not be touched. A strange tale of Disillusionment, memories and desire. SSHG. Complete in two parts. Mature readers, please. Written for the 2016 Crossgen fest.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling and associates. No copyright infringement intended. Thank you to AdelaideArcher and Banglabou for wrangling this into submission! Part two, plus original prompt info, to be up as soon as the HTML converter decides to play along nicely.

* * *

 **Of Sight and Sound**

 _I had not intended to love him; the reader knows I had wrought hard to extirpate from my soul the germs of love there detected; and now, at first renewed view of him, they spontaneously revived, green and strong! He made me love him without looking at me._

 _'Jane Eyre'. Charlotte Brontë, ch. 17._

* * *

 **Part One**

It was decidedly strange, Severus thought, as he studied the movement of his hand as it swiped through the air. There was absolutely… nothing. He felt the wind ruffling his hair; the sun shining upon his face; the dampness of the grass under his feet. As he walked, the soles of his shoes made prints in the grass - a reminder. He was here: he was real, solid. Human.

He needed that reminder, or he would surely go mad. Perhaps he already _was_ mad.

Perhaps she would know.

.

.

 _April, 2002_

"It might work," she said slowly, tracing the rim of the wine glass with her finger. "It might work. But let's not talk work at dinner. I'll go spare."

Padma reached over the table and patted her hand, withdrawing almost immediately. "Sorry, love," she said quickly, taking in the way Hermione flinched.

"No, I am," Hermione groaned, tipping the last of the wine into her mouth. She swished the rich red liquid around with her tongue, grimacing when she swallowed it all in a too-large gulp. "You know me and touch. It's exceedingly stupid."

"You haven't gone back to the Muggle therapist?"

"No," she sighed. They gathered their bags and paused to touch both wands to the bill. It glowed a sickly green before vanishing, leaving no trace of their bland meal behind. Hermione was out of the restaurant first, and she slid on a light coat while waiting for Padma to fix the collar of her cloak. "There wasn't much point. I couldn't tell him everything, and by the end of the second session, he was frustrated enough to tell me to either be honest or leave. I left."

"Bah," her friend grumbled, "you should've told him – and then Obliviated him. He made his choice."

"Are we going to start this again?"

"It's a _great_ case!" Padma exclaimed, jogging ahead of her only to turn and walk backwards so as to keep eye contact. She would've grabbed onto Hermione's hands if it wouldn't have resulted in fright, but she settled for flapping her fingers in the air, determined to share her determination. Hermione could only grin, enticed into conversation by her friend's excitement, though she knew she'd never give in. The witches were in Hogsmeade, having Apparated in from London to one of the smaller inns that promised a quiet evening meal and barely any staff. It was dark now, and she was missing her bed.

"Just think!" Padma was saying breathlessly. "It could even turn into a class action! There's hardly a Magical family in Britain that the Ministry hasn't touched. They've edited the minds of _hundreds._ "

"Closer to the thousands in this war alone. I shudder to think of the numbers for the first war – you heard Remus: the rules were off."

"Not that there were any good ones in the first place."

"Exactly right. God," Hermione laughed, "you _are_ right. But we're not big enough. Not yet. Maybe in a few years…"

"You're sure? Really?"

Hermione thought of their tiny two-woman office atop an Apothecary in Diagon Alley. As it was, they were struggling to find the room to see the clients that paid the rent – a lawsuit of this size would cripple them financially before even reaching court. There wasn't enough to cover them until success. If there even would be a success – the idea was solid and it had merit, but it could wait. She had learnt to prioritise over the years; her sleep and Padma's sanity was as good a reason as any to decline for now.

"I'm sure," she said, nodding emphatically. They walked past a bookstore, both pausing to take in the window display. "Anything?"

Padma sighed. "No, nothing."

"Maybe it won't be in the front… Maybe they've a special section?"

"Either that or Parvati's lied to me again about her book. I don't know _why_ she even deigned to mention it. When I tried to talk to her again last week, she told me that I had no use for her beauty charms, so why should she even tell me when the book was due to be released?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and opened her bag, fumbling around for a moment before producing a small container of after-dinner mints. "Here, have one. She just wanted to tell you – you're twins! Of course she'd want you to know. But her indignation kicked in, and now she's dangling the carrot. You've got to jump high enough to get it, that's all."

Padma winced. "Come on, let's go. All I said was that she had the tendency to be a stupid little bint sometimes – and she does! She was bloody rude, going on about—"

"Let's not talk about it." The night had been enjoyable; she'd spent it with her colleague, the woman who had scraped enough money together with her to open up their fledging law firm the year before. Quiet nights were rare these days—mostly she was researching or writing or both—and Hermione had no desire at all to go over Parvati's latest comment about her aversion to touch meaning she was simply the cold-hearted cow that everyone already thought she was.

"Agreed. All right. Are you going to be okay Apparating? You look tired."

She shook her head, shoving a stray curl out of the way. "I'll be fine. You?"

"I've a date with a book and my bed. I'm more than fine – see, no bloke needed." Padma was still recovering from separating with Seamus six months ago; by Hermione's equation, she still had a few more months before her friend would regain her own delight for spending time alone.

The two witches waited until the way was clear before crossing the street, aiming for the spots reserved for Disapparating. It was easier to simply turn and flash out of existence wherever one found themselves, but using an official spot meant accessing a built-in charm that ensured the witch wouldn't arrive on top of a helpless Muggle.

"What are you reading?"

"Jane Eyre – again."

"Where're you up to?" Hermione shivered; the night was cool, and for a moment she could've sworn that Padma's fingers grazed her back. "Padma—love, please don't."

"Don't what?" She turned, considering Hermione with concerned eyes. "Are you all right?"

"You didn't…?" Red-cheeked, she ducked her head and avoided Padma's gaze. "Sorry. I'm tired, you're right. Take me home?"

"Of course. And, I've just arrived at Thornfield. My mysterious, dour traveller is about to surprise me on the road."

Tipping her head back, Hermione stared at the night sky and wondered how on earth it was that she'd come to be so afraid of touch that her skin _still_ tingled from the phantom touch on her back. She shook her head and grinned, more to be kind to herself than anything else. "I bet you've got that part dog-eared, don't you?"

Padma gave a pleased little chortle. "Sometimes I'm not patient enough to read one hundred pages of exposition: sometimes, I just want…"

The witches sighed in unison before saying together: "Rochester."

Smirking, Padma offered Hermione the strap of her bag, and she looped it over her body. "Indeed. Come on. On the count of three."

.

.

The flat was dark when she let herself in. It was quiet, and Hermione stood with her back to the closed door, senses alert. It was unexplainable: odd, really. Her wards were thrumming, but as far as she could see, no-one was inside except for her. She shifted on her feet, considering whether she should call Padma back. Another flick of her wand revealed the humans inside the flat: only one, herself.

She huffed a quick breath, irritated. Slowly, very slowly, she walked around the small kitchen, years of residence and familiarity enabling her to walk by the scant moonlight shining through the window. It was as she had left it that morning: her electricity bill open on the counter, a bowl of fruit with too-ripe bananas and an off mandarin advertising her penchant for sandwiches and crisps for sustenance.

Moving into the sitting room, she cast a critical eye over the sofa and television. Nothing. Even the new DVD player she'd bought the week before was sitting under the tellie, shining and obnoxious. Nothing had been touched.

She checked her books: nothing.

The bedroom: nothing.

And then—

"Reveal yourself," she hissed, wand thrust at a deadly straight angle in the air, pointing directly at a slight shimmer in front of the kitchen sink. She was chilled with fear and her fingers felt like ice as they tightened around her wand. "Do it! _Finite Incantatem_!"

The failure of her spell went entirely unnoticed, for the voice that issued forth from the seemingly invisible being in her kitchen forced her mouth to open in a silent scream.

"Any further attempts would be fruitless, Miss Granger. Perhaps you should sit down," said the weary voice of Severus Snape. "It seems that I require your… assistance."

.

.

Almost four years. Almost four entire years.

It didn't feel that way. Hermione listened to him repeat the request for assistance, and realised that she had frozen, as if he were instructing her in the classroom again.

Oh, she'd always known that he'd lived – they all did. She'd gone to look for his body with Harry not long after the end of the battle, but though it hadn't been there, a silvery doe had greeted her friend soon after. Even to her, it nuzzled her palm and nodded once, and she understood easily that it was over for Snape: he was finished, and he wasn't coming back. She entertained the thought of his exit for weeks, wondering whether he was off on some island turning his sallow skin swarthy, or tucked up in a quaint cottage somewhere remote, somewhere cold. The Prophet resurrected the story every six months or so; many claimed to have seen a familiar flash of greasy black hair around a corner, or his grim and dour face one of many in a crowded street.

Nothing really seemed to fit, though. And now she knew why. Except that she didn't, not really – all she could grasp was that he was here, Disillusioned, in her tiny, messy flat.

"Strange," she said hoarsely, aware of her own voice echoing. "Bizarre. This is very, very bizarre." There wasn't even the solidity of his body to make her feel less _crazy_ for talking to what looked like an empty kitchen.

"Why don't you sit down?" he prompted, and she, numbly, acquiesced.

He was real, and he wasn't. That was as much as she could deduce without going mad. She sat on the sofa and stared at the space where his voice was coming from; from shock, or some other nefarious emotion, she still hadn't even lit the candles. Sitting in the dark like this, on her own with an almost invisible former teacher somewhere in front of her, Hermione was inclined to think she'd fallen asleep somehow and was living in either a nightmare or a very strange daydream.

"I still don't understand," she said tiredly, grabbing at her curls. She tugged, searching for something to keep her mind present rather than running off again. With a purposeful flick of her wand, the room flooded with warm candlelight. "You're here, but… and you're… God. This is ridiculous. Why are you _here_?"

She fancied that he shrugged, for his voice as he answered sounded… lost. "I have exhausted every other avenue."

"Have you? Truly?" Surely that was a lie – she shouldn't even be an option. The Snape she had vaguely known in the past would never have even considered her. "I don't believe you."

"Oh." His baritone voice was flat; dull. "Well, you might be right: it was a slight embellishment. A slight lie."

"Are you… quite well?" _In the head,_ she added silently, grimacing.

"I'm not off my rocker, if that's what you mean."

"I'd understand if you were – off your rocker, that is. You're _invisible_."

Snape sighed, and there was a creaking sound as he sat down on her coffee table. She thought about being rankled at his choice, but the only other place was next to her and that sent a shudder through her. As it was, she could squint and make out the outline of his body – thin and tall and stooped – but nothing else. It was the best casting of the spell that she had ever seen. Bizarrely, her interest was piqued by this show of talent, and Hermione leant forward with elbows resting on her knees and stared.

"Not invisible," he muttered and then he sniffed once, twice, then sneezed. "You've still got that cat, haven't you? Of all the bloody researchers in the world…"

Hermione chuckled and banished the cat hair from the sofa; he did not thank her, and she hadn't expected that he would. "Not invisible? What are you, then? Because unfortunately, you can't actually be seen, unless that's somehow escaped your notice."

She bit her lip when he didn't reply – his frustration was positively tangible. "Sorry," she mumbled, Summoning a notepad and a pen. "But really… why me?"

"Granger…" He must've put his head in his hands, because the shimmer bent over slightly, and she could almost sense the coldness of the spell. "If we're going to do this," he said finally, roughly, "you should go and put the kettle on. Or tell me where it is and I'll do it." After some thought, he cleared his throat and said in a tone she couldn't decipher: "I'll do it. You're sitting there looking like you've seen a ghost."

"Oh, God," she moaned, pushing her body off the sofa. "Don't do that again. It wasn't funny. You're not funny."

But she snorted nonetheless, bemused rather than anything else, when he only answered with a thin, "But it got you moving now, didn't it?"

.

.

"Tell me again. I can't even get my head around it."

He was too weary to insult her, though he was still not fond of repeating himself. Leaning back on the chair that she'd Transfigured from a pillow, Snape crossed one leg over the other and steepled his fingers. "I have told you enough," he said gruffly. "You know enough now to tell it all back to me."

Unperturbed, Granger stood and began to pace in the narrow space behind her sofa and where the kitchen began. It was a small flat, but homely; books were stacked everywhere, and though the grey carpet was dull and scuffed, she'd covered most of it with a red rug that was soft under his boots. The kitchen was dated, and the paint on the walls had seen better days. It was the sort of place that he might have even chosen for himself, if he were young, penniless and employed nearby. He scoffed, annoyed at the direction of his thoughts, and focused on her again.

She was the same, with only a small set of exceptions. Her hair was still horrid and huge and wild—even wild was too kind a word, really—and she was of average height, and thin. The robes she wore were tailored differently to the norm, though, for they looked more like a long sleeved dress than anything else. She didn't billow and neither did she sweep around as she moved; the robes were snug on her arms and coloured a plain, dark brown. They weren't awful on her either.

Severus narrowed his eyes. Her face bore some differences; there was a very faint line between her eyebrows, and slight shadows under her eyes. Her lashes were darker—enhanced by some Muggle means, going by the way black was beginning to smudge in the corners—and her skin was more tanned than he remembered. That being said, he was measuring her against the girl that he'd catalogued as a teacher and spy when it'd been his job to do so. That memory didn't seem to apply to her anymore; she was certainly different enough in her personality to think rather than blurt.

"You healed yourself," she was saying, pausing every so often to have a sip of tea from the huge mug in her hand. He nodded, more from instinct than anything else, as any action other than speaking was close to pointless given she couldn't see it.

"You healed yourself—and one day I'd like to know how, because truly I thought you were dead when we first left you—and waited there in the Shack. You waited until you felt the Dark Mark burn." She looked over at him, her eyes focusing on a spot beside his head. Disconcerted, Severus grunted in agreement.

"It burned, and you screamed, but nobody heard you. And when the colour began to fade into the silvery lines of old scars, you knew that he was gone. You knew that Riddle was dead."

He liked that: Riddle. She said it bossily enough for him to know that she would take no shit from anyone about referring to the monster so bluntly.

"Yes," he allowed. "I knew he was dead."

"But you didn't know about Harry."

"I knew nothing about the fate of anyone. Not at that point," he reminded her quietly. He was fast losing his patience. "If you are quite finished…"

"Well, I'm not," she snapped, hands on her hips. In smart-looking robes and with the pose she was holding, he was discomfited at the realisation that she was a woman indeed. No girl was this; if anything they were equals now, and the weight of her irritated gaze was so heavy that he scratched at the back of his neck, uncomfortable with her ineffectual scrutiny.

"Indeed," he muttered, lapsing into silence.

Granger drank her tea and resumed her steady pace. "You Disillusioned yourself and waited for as long as you felt it was safe to do so. You left the Shack, but did not go to Hogwarts."

"Quite."

"Why?"

He scowled. "The Dark Lord was dead. What was there for me to go back to? I did not wish to return to the castle – and for that matter, I never wish to return again."

Granger tilted her head to the side and he reckoned she was filing that comment away in a box that she'd analyse later. "And then you went to Spinner's End to retrieve your belongings. You sent your Patronus to—to—" She closed her eyes and opened them, looking resolute. "—to Remus Lupin. He did not answer. You then sent one to Shacklebolt, who knew enough about your loyalties thanks to Harry's speech, that he was able to tell you that it was done. After that, you sent a nonverbal message to Harry as a courtesy—though, between you and me, I think you just wanted to ensure you'd get some peace and quiet—and then contacted Kingsley again to confirm that you were off."

"Quite."

"Did you ask Kingsley not to reveal that information?"

Bemused, he shook his head. "No, but Shacklebolt keeps his own counsel on most matters. As is wise."

She gave a low chuckle that intrigued him. "Probably true. And so we've come full circle?"

"In a way."

"No, not in a way," she said, crossing the small space. "You haven't told me what on earth went wrong! You haven't told me why you're here of all places, with some idea of me fixing it! Professor," she said exasperatedly, " _what is wrong with you_?"

He looked down at his Disillusioned hands and sighed. "I have absolutely no idea."

.

.

She could only flop down onto the sofa. "If you don't know what's wrong, then what exactly are you expecting me to be able to do? I'm only going to say this once, but you've years on me when it comes to research and knowledge and—"

Snape snorted; she deduced that he'd moved from the Transfigured chair to beside her on the sofa, and she flinched, unable to stop herself. He was silent, until he wasn't.

"You are a researcher."

"A lawyer," she corrected primly.

"That, and a researcher."

"Well, I suppose…"

"And you have access to—"

"Oh." Hermione threw a glare in the general direction that his voice came from. The shimmer suggested that he'd stretched out his long, lanky legs in front of him. "You came here and frightened the life out of me, because you want my access card to the Ministry l—"

"Not the Ministry library, girl," he growled, the sneer on his lips positively audible.

Still, her ire grew. "Don't patronise me," she said quietly, staring at her knees. "Do it again, and whatever this is, is over."

He might have grunted in acknowledgement, but she couldn't decipher it enough from the sound of the kettle that was boiling again.

"You are…" he began, shifting with such exaggeration that she could feel the cushions sink, and thus she knew that he had swivelled to face her, "…the only person who, to my knowledge, has access to come and go at Hogwarts. It is there that I must go."

Confused, Hermione dragged her hair back into a bun that barely held. "But I thought you said—"

"I know what I said," he muttered. "I do not _wish_ to go, but I must. Surely you understand the difference."

She blinked, puzzled. "I'm not the only one who can come and go at Hogwarts. I just happen to be one of the rare outsiders that has permission to use the—oh."

Snape made a clicking sound with his tongue.

"You want access to the library?"

"Inasmuch as I want access to my old books," he answered. She frowned, rankled at the lacklustre tone to his voice. As a teacher, Snape had spoken with a masterful command over any subject; even his insults were colourful, varied. Yet here he was, at a disadvantage, and barely batting an eyelid – at least she suspected he wasn't. Still, she was rather of the mind that a dull and weary Snape was more interesting than anything else she might have been spending her time on otherwise.

"Your old books are in the library?" she asked, making her way back into the kitchen for more tea. On a whim, she grabbed a plate and emptied out a biscuit container from the cupboard. She set the plate onto the one tea tray she owned, and sent it over to the coffee table. It was peculiar indeed to see a ginger snap float through the air and disappear, presumably into his mouth.

"It's the only place they could be. Or rather, they'd be in the one place that I can't seem to get access to."

"You've been there before?"

"What do you think?" he said snidely, and another biscuit disappeared. "The Castle still recognises me. But Irma bloody Pince doesn't."

"You're kidding," she demanded, returning to the sofa. "That's all this is? You need me to get into the Restricted Section for you? You could've asked anyone!"

"Not anyone," he said simply. "You weren't wrong the first time."

"Weren't wrong the first time," Hermione muttered to herself, snagging a mint chocolate biscuit. "Weren't wrong… You _do_ want to visit the Ministry library! You dangled the carrot and got me intrigued enough to take you in, didn't you?"

His silence spoke volumes.

.

.

For that first, fascinating night, sleep did not enter his thoughts. He was consumed with watching her; after years of being unseen, unheard, unobserved, Severus found himself transfixed by the sight she made. She seemed used to going without sleep, but then he remembered that it was Friday and she could make up for it during the weekend. During his own years of travelling after the end of the war, he'd often slept in the day. It was certainly easier to disguise his movements in the dead of night.

He lounged on the sofa—she couldn't really see him, so he was free to recline like a sluggish Pasha—and watched her work. There was no real reason for him to still be here, but he felt oddly reluctant to draw attention to it. She was bent over the kitchen bench, perched on a stool that must've been comfortable because she hadn't moved in an hour. Every so often, her hands would flick a page over, or she'd hum pensively to herself. Inevitably, she'd turn around to him and grumble, "I just cannot believe that you placed the spell on yourself, and then couldn't lift it! Why?"

It was a waste of breath to answer; he often didn't.

There was a small stack of books beside her. Throughout the night, they'd zoomed out of a room at the end of the hall. Her study, he presumed, though she hadn't given him the option of going inside. This new Granger was cautious and private; he didn't mind.

"I believe," he said slowly, quietly, "it has something to do with the venom."

"Well, yes," she responded, setting down her quill. She glanced at him with a blankness to her face that looked rehearsed. "That is probably the case. Why are you here, again?"

"You don't actually have to do anything. Just get me the books I need."

"Oh. How flattering."

"I think it is," he said honestly, shrugging.

She bristled. "Are you really of the mind that I'm still looking for your approval? That you can just flash into existence and I'll help immediately, because all that's been missing from my life is a: _'Well done, Miss Granger'_?"

Her impersonation of his voice was completely incorrect. And more importantly—though he acknowledged it was strange to consider her impression of him as more important; try as he might, that was how his mind ordered it—she was wrong. "No. You don't need my approval. Who am I? No-one."

.

.

 _Who am I?_

She didn't know how to answer. Anything truthful would give her away: that she still sometimes dreamt of him requesting her collaboration on something, anything, and praising her efforts. That she still sometimes heard his voice reciting sections of her court arguments, then twisting them until they sounded far better than they were. And still, she sometimes used him as the main inspiration for how she was living her life: on her own terms, and alone.

Not that Snape had been on his own terms—she wasn't naïve—but more so… how he'd left, and how he'd taught. His intelligence had been far clearer to her than the other teachers. Professors McGonagall and Flitwick, for example; she knew they were smart, knew they were near the top of their field. But Snape…

After his disappearance, she'd tracked down the articles he'd submitted to various research journals over the years. There was a plethora from the decade before they'd arrived at Hogwarts; of the years since, perhaps a handful. Nothing at all after 1995.

Every single word written by his hand sparked something within her. His arguments struck flint and steel in her soul; in him, she felt she had found a kindred spirit. It had always been bittersweet, that she had discovered this connection to him at the same time as knowing that he had gone.

And now, he was here in her tiny flat, muttering to himself—and, she supposed, to her—about ingredients and potions and other things to try. It was utterly surreal. She couldn't see him; she could only hear his voice listing option after option.

She wondered what he looked like now, four years after she'd last seen him drowning in his own blood on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. And then she wondered why on earth she was even considering such a thing: Padma was intelligent, but it wasn't like she was hell-bent on _kissing_ her.

And when had she even thought about kissing the invisible man in her flat?

When had kissing even come into it at all?

Hermione made her excuses and headed straight for her bedroom. She knew that she was getting drawn into his web, and she wasn't sure that she was even all that opposed to it.

.

.

He slept on the sofa for a few hours. When she emerged from her bedroom, she stood stock still in the kitchen. "Where are you?"

Deciding that it would not be prudent to mention that her hair was even more dishevelled—and thus even more endearing—after her sleep, Severus stood and loudly cleared his throat. "Here."

Their eyes met; she couldn't have known, but he drew in a ragged breath and put a hand on his heart. How long since anyone had _seen_ him? Not just with their eyes, but _truly_ seen him?

Granger must've sensed something, because she stayed where she was, and looked.

Her eyes—after much study, he decided they were the same brown as the dark, wooden teacher's table in the Great Hall—stayed with his. She breathed in once, twice, then licked her lips. He was surprised to realise that he broke eye contact with her to watch the movement of her pink tongue wetting her mouth.

"Where are we going today?" he asked her, blinking away the dryness in his eyes as she turned and headed for the icebox.

"I thought we'd start at the hardest spot."

"Ah."

She threw a small grin over her shoulder. "Sorry. But, you know, it's better to get it over and done with."

"Rip the plaster off," he put in blandly, inwardly groaning at the stupid statement.

Granger rolled her eyes and poured milk into two matching mugs before adding in a spoonful of coffee for each. "Remember: we talked about this. You're not funny."

"Am I tagging along?" he said instead, eyes flicking down to where her old, too-large pyjama shirt reached her smooth looking knees.

"Do you need to? Am I going to be able to know your books on sight?"

He grimaced and mumbled a thanks for the coffee. She watched him drink the first sip with a silly grin on her mouth. "Sorry," she laughed, rubbing at her forehead. "But it _is_ rather amusing, watching the cup go up in the air and then down again, and not even be able to see you drinking it."

"Yes, well…"

"Sorry," Granger repeated.

"It's all right." He took another sip, then blurted, "Thank you for assisting me."

When she choked on her mouthful of coffee, he laughed for the first time in years.


	2. Chapter 2

_The end is nigh, as we delve further into this strange romance..._

* * *

 **Part 2**

A witch and a wizard stood outside the gates of Hogwarts. One could be seen, and one could not.

"Will the spell hold, do you think?" she asked, staring up at the Headmistress' tower.

"It's held every other time."

"Every other—wait." Without thinking, she thrust her hand out then sucked in a breath when she encountered the side of his body. Her hand, so unused to initiating contact, wavered. Strangely, though, her heart did not stutter; her breath did not catch. She felt… comfortable with the fact that her hand was digging into his hip. The bone there was sharp and somehow she registered that he was apparently wearing enough layers to soften her jab. It should have shocked her, that she could touch him and not react, but Snape hissed and impropriety won out over her triumph.

"You've been before?" she mumbled, removing her hand. "You didn't tell me. How is it that a former Headmaster cannot enter the Restricted Section?"

"I can. Of course I can. Minerva can, too. But…" he faltered. "Albus indulged Irma, and to my knowledge, she still reigns in the library…"

"Oh, yes. She very much does."

"In that case, she knows about everyone that enters. _Everyone_."

"She has wards? Wards that you can't adjust?" Impossible, she thought, though she certainly wasn't about to say that.

"I could. But she'd know, and since only a Head can adjust them, she'd no doubt ask Minerva, who then…"

Hermione exhaled with a growl. "Are you coming in with me?"

"To the library. Not into the Restricted Section. We'll work it out as we go along."

"You're so…" She searched for words, then went with: "Chipper. You're very chipper."

When he finally responded, his voice was so close to her that her eyelids fluttered. His breath was warm as it ghosted over her ear. She suspected that he was amused.

"How did you think I would be, hmm?"

Laughing nervously, she managed an awkward, "I didn't think you'd be anything. I thought you were off somewhere sunning yourself. But four years… you're more positive than I'd expect."

He left her side to bark out a hoarse laugh, but then he was back beside her, murmuring in that baritone voice that slid into her ear and slithered through her veins, igniting as it went. "I have been content, Miss Granger. It was… nice, to be unseen for a time."

"But you want to be seen now?" she pressed. "You're ready to come back?"

"Back? To society?" Snape chuckled; again she thought his throat was unused to producing such a sound, for his laugh was more of a rasp than anything else. "No. Can't imagine anything worse. But I'd like to function without resorting to Confundus charms."

"Explain."

"Can't very well shop at the store can I, eh? How'd you fancy seeing vegetables floating through the air, if you were a no-nonsense Muggle?"

Stifling a giggle, she thought of her Tory voting grandfather following the track of a bag of onions as it floated through a supermarket. "That's very true. How are you even alive, then? Have you been eating at all?"

He snorted. "I've got a team of house elves at my beck and call."

"No!"

"No," he allowed, and she knew that he was grinning. Having never seen it before, she thought she might quite like to see a grinning Snape. It'd probably be quite frightening. Terrifying, even.

"Ready?"

He sighed. "Or not, here I come."

"God!" exclaimed Hermione, marching through the gate. "Terrible joker. Absolutely terrible."

.

.

They stood at the rope that divided the Restricted Section from the rest of the library. It was a quiet morning; only a handful of students were working and from the looks of them, they'd arrived during a senior study period.

"Well?" he whispered, standing as close as he could without touching her.

It wasn't that she'd mentioned anything, but he'd watched her during the afternoon before summoning the courage to reveal himself in her flat. There was something… there was something about it, about touch. She was as skittish as a colt, which was not how he remembered her. Severus recalled that she was the one who was _always_ touching; it was one of the things that used to annoy him. She'd sling her arms around a companion's shoulders, or pinch someone's ear if she had to. Once, she'd even touched _him_ , on the long, long night when he'd healed her after the debacle in the Department of Mysteries. He could see it clearly still: a vision of her, weeping on the bed, grasping at his arms as he held onto her shoulders to steady her from moving too much.

He'd gritted his teeth against recoiling, then. He was no stranger to such an aversion.

But what had happened to Granger, to make her so like…himself?

.

.

"Well," she said, depositing the pile on the coffee table, "that was certainly fruitful."

She felt his presence at her side. Both stood back from the table, and she jerked her chin to him, indicating that he could do the honours. The pile of shrunken books began to expand slowly until the table was groaning under their weight. Hermione estimated that there would be about twenty books – no wonder Irma had scowled so.

Snape was silent. Tactfully, she turned and made for the kitchen, allowing him a measure of privacy with which to become reacquainted with his belongings.

"Are they the very worst ones?" she asked quietly, her attention mostly on the content of her cupboards. Bread, pickles… there was cheese in the icebox, so lunch was sorted. Sometimes it threw her, living in a completely Magical environment; her own flat was a hybrid, thanks to George and Arthur's experiments. She could live Magically, and hence freely bar rent, but she maintained enough connections to watch a film once in a while, or invite her parents over and flick light switches instead of her wand. But a fridge and microwave, she happily did without. It was small enough without adding in a big, white and humming fridge in the spot where Crooks' food tray went.

His absentminded voice floated over to where she stood assembling the sandwiches. "Not the worst, no. These are just the most obscure. The worst are in, and have always been in, my home. The standard offerings are also there; Kingsley managed to send many on with none the wiser, but Irma had been lusting after my books for years. He had to bargain with her."

Hermione was filled with a sudden appreciation for the Hogwarts librarian. No limp fish was Pince. Not for the first time, she commented, "Kingsley would've been far better at this than I, you know."

"Yes, but how could he explain being at Hogwarts? There'd be questions." He paused. "I dislike questions."

The absurdity of the comment threw her off, and she let out a peal of laughter that ended with a graceless hoot. "You're completely mad," she said, mostly to herself, but she smiled when he chuckled under his breath. "Who would've thought? The dour teacher and the bookworm. Researching Disillusionment."

"The bookworm? Is that still how you see yourself?"

She headed back into the sitting area with the sandwiches. Wasn't that what she was? Wasn't that how everyone saw her? Penniless co-owner of a tiny law firm with Padma, and everyone still saw her as the witch with her nose in a book. There wasn't much point in reminding them that books were what gave her the degree – she'd studied for three years as an Apprentice at the Ministry. The paper confirming it was framed and on the wall at work. But not many saw that achievement – they just saw the girl poring over a tome, quills in her hair, tea at her elbow.

"No," she said honestly, handing his shimmer a plate. "Here. Cheese and pickles."

He gave a pleased, quiet sigh. "My favourite. Thank you."

"You've got to stop thanking me. I'll begin to get used to it." She sank down onto the sofa and only realised once she was there that he was sitting on it, too. They weren't close enough to touch, but he was so entirely _not there_ that she wondered if she'd even mind if their knees bumped.

Between mouthfuls, she felt a prickling at the back of her neck; she often felt this way when she was working out whether to fill the silence or wait for the other person to speak. And then, surprising herself, she thought about kissing a Disillusioned man; how would his lips feel? Soft? Cold? She'd always been attracted to intelligence, but surely this was something else – being attracted to a man that wasn't even there at all, only because of the things that came out of his mouth. That was it, decided Hermione: she was attracted to him—no use hiding it—because he had a nice voice, and she liked that she could _hear_ his brain working. There was evidence that he had one. He didn't bother to hide it – he was upfront about it. 'I'm intelligent, now piss off.' She giggled, delighted with his unapologetic ways.

"What are you giggling about?"

She finished the sandwich and wiped her mouth. "Oh, nothing," she sighed, turning on the sofa to face him. Or, to face what she could see of him. "How does it feel?" she blurted, frowning. "How does your body feel? After being Disillusioned for so long?"

"Cold," he answered immediately; she hadn't expected the honesty. "Cold, and… quiet. That was enough for a long time. But now, I should like to be warm again."

Without a word, she pointed her wand at the grate in the corner and watched the fire spring to life.

"I wouldn't call you a bookworm," he muttered after he'd sent both plates to the sink. Squinting, she could see his outline enough to know that he was leaning forward on the couch, staring at the opposite wall. His elbows were resting on his knees. There wasn't much else, though she had an impression of long, long hair before he turned to her and there was only a blurred shimmer again.

"What would you call me? Do I even want to know?" Hermione winced. Probably not. But then, it was a good enough test – his answer would determine how she felt. The bizarre awareness of him could be stifled, deleted, if he was less than kind now.

He cleared his throat. "I think you are extraordinarily lovely."

"Do you?" There wasn't enough breath in her body to support saying anything else. Her cheeks blazed, and she held herself completely still.

Softly, he murmured, "I suppose I do."

Hermione brushed a stray hair from her forehead, self-conscious.

.

.

Severus wanted to kick himself. Forty-four, and he was making sheep's eyes at the girl. Thank the gods for small graces, he thought, remembering that she couldn't see his mooning.

He'd made that stupid comment, the 'lovely' comment, and her lips had quirked. Not in a smile, nor with a withheld speech. She'd looked at him, eyes wide and blinking, and moved her mouth.

Had she…

Was she…

He'd wanted to kiss her when she came out of the Restricted section with his old books. Her smile was so triumphant and smug, that he instantly wanted to wipe it away from her lips – a kiss was the first method that came to mind.

Why?

 _Why?_

 _._

 _._

The next day, he shadowed her at the Ministry library. When they read through the tomes in her flat later that night, she realised that he was muttering the words under his breath.

When she was sure that he wasn't paying any attention to her at all, Hermione closed her eyes and listened to the melodious sound of his deep voice sliding over obscure potion ingredients. He kept doing it – he kept reading out loud, and before long they'd spent an hour with her sitting with her head against the back of the sofa, and her feet on the table. Her eyes were closed; she was listening with all her senses.

When she dragged herself to bed, her mind was with the invisible man on the couch. Her clitoris was _throbbing_. She didn't quite know what she wanted to do about it.

.

.

It came to a head three days later. Hermione stumbled into the flat, exuberant. She was met with the smell of alcohol.

"What is this?"

"Forgive me," said Disillusioned Severus—she'd stopped thinking of him as Snape; when he was sleeping on her couch, Severus was more fitting—and he waved a bottle of beer in the air to show her that he was standing in the kitchen. Warily, she set her bag down and approached him. She stood close enough to feel the coldness of his body, and fancied that she heard him swallow.

Puzzled, she repeated, "What is this?"

He leaned closer to her; she could see an outline of his face, but again, the charm held too well. All that was apparent was a faint impression of longer hair and sharp features. At that moment, she wished that she could see him; she wanted to see his eyes, to see if the black oil within was aflame.

"I, ah…" he began, then swore quietly. She giggled, disarmed by his lack of composure. There was something in the air then, something that made her think that he was smiling. She could _feel_ the warmth of it.

"I thought I needed something to start me off," he said slowly. She had the distinct impression that he was studying her; again, Hermione considered how bizarre it was that she was speaking to an invisible former teacher who was looming over her, apparently smiling.

"Start you off?" She shifted on her feet; looked around the flat. "For what?"

Without preamble, he said carefully, "I think I may have found the solution to my… predicament. There's a butterfly, we should find it in Kew Gardens. And when it sucks on a certain nectar, it reacts with its—ah, anyway. It's what I think should work. I'll get it, then create the potion around it. Our work, for now, is… complete. And I don't know how I feel about that. So, I'm drinking. To start me off."

She was taken aback. The news hit her in a way that felt like a physical shock. Blinking, she mumbled, "I don't know how I feel about that either."

He couldn't be seen, and thus she took her courage in hand and crossed her arms. "I don't think I'm very… happy."

"No," he said, and he was hesitant. "No, neither am I…"

"Are you going to leave?" she demanded.

She'd grown used to his invisible presence; it was reassuring in an off-the-wall way. And she'd… she'd… she'd grown used to listening to him read aloud on ingredients and techniques and charms, and using the memory of his independent analyses to stroke herself into oblivion each night. She didn't know how she felt about his success, but she did know that she didn't want to lose whatever it was that she had with him. Companionship, she decided eventually. That was what it was. He was her companion – he felt it, she knew he did. And somehow she knew that she shouldn't kiss him yet. He didn't _know_ yet – he was still undecided, still careful. She was ready to coax him into her, to guide his cock inside until she was filled.

Which would be an obstacle, for a witch who hadn't touched a man in years.

.

.

Was he going to leave?

He went to sleep thinking about it. Was he? He should, surely. There was no other reason for him to be here with her, in her flat, on her sofa.

Severus turned over and burrowed into the pillow. He was warm here, and comfortable.

He didn't want to leave.

.

.

She booked in two day's leave – the first leave she'd taken since establishing the firm. He was proud of her, if he could even make such a claim on the witch. She was frazzled and off-kilter and every single movement she made had a wild purpose – to stride across the room, to shove her hair off her face, to throw open a door because she had no damn time to do it politely, thank you very much.

Twenty-four and she'd completed an Apprenticeship at the Ministry and started her own law firm. He knew now that Padma was the one who fronted up at court; the Ravenclaw was more persuasive, less in-your-face-and-piss-off-if-you-disagree than Granger. Hermione was the one who did the background work – assessing cases, researching positions, dissecting laws to find loopholes.

She was marvellous at it.

There. He couldn't hide it. He was proud of her.

Was it a polite kind of proud?

Severus tapped his pen on the table and scratched out the coordinates of where the ingredient could be found.

No; it probably wasn't a polite kind of proud. He wanted to touch her; he wanted to kiss her.

It was a very different kind of proud.

And he thought… that is, he suspected that… it might be welcome.

"Are you ready to go?" she asked, appearing at his elbow. He hadn't told her, but when she placed herself so close to him, the heat of her body to his Disillusioned form was amplified and heady and raw. His limbs were so absorbed in the coldness of the spell, that her warmth was a marked difference. Slightly, he leaned towards her, eyelids fluttering.

Surprising himself, he asked her, "What happened with it? With touch?" _Where did it go? Why don't you use it? Why do you shy away from it?_

She pursed her lips. He caught himself thinking that if she were his, he could pull her onto his lap, stroke her back and call her Darling, and perhaps it would soothe her.

Sighing, Hermione shrugged her shoulders. "The Manor. She was _on_ me, Bellatrix, and—and I—well…" He reached for her then, just the tip of his index finger to where her hand was flat on the table beside him. Severus pressed down, the smallest of touches. She held her breath and then released it in a trembling gush of air.

"Control. That's what I didn't have. And that's what I need. No fleeting moments. No independent thought. I want control over absolutely everything, so… So, I'm not…" Here she paused and roughly rubbed at her eyes. She didn't want to cry, and he was fascinated with how she managed to force her eyes not to.

"So I'm not a very good person. To be with. I'm not a very good person to be with."

He said nothing.

Encouraged by the silence and the fact that any reactions he may have would go unseen, she continued, and her voice was just a little louder. "The first time I had sex, I think he thought it was a game. He loved it. I tied his hands to the frame of the bed and—and I swung my leg over. Our bodies touched here…" She grabbed his hand—she was furious, he realised—and jerked it in one movement down from her hip bones to her thigh, before she dropped it. "…to here, and that was it. He thought it was great; until the next time was the same. And the next. And the next. And I went to therapists, that first year. Muggle, Magical. Nothing worked; nothing at all. And then I left it – stupidly. Because of course it worsened, and it ran rampant in the end. It _is_ rampant, in a way. But I have it: this thing. This… inconvenience. It's part of me now, I suspect."

Severus hung his head. He burned with mortification—not shame, no, never that—because his body was aflame with desire and his cock was hard and _aware_. He wanted her to ride him. He wanted this woman, this young, tiny package of a woman, to ride him and fix him and fuck him until she realised that he came to her with no designs. He'd needed her help, that was it, and he was almost a blank slate when it came to women. She could mould him to whatever it was that she wanted: a decade he'd gone without anything, and he'd stopped placing importance on that long ago.

Comprehending that he couldn't effectively solve her problems, he offered what he knew instead. "Take it out."

"What?" She sat down at the table, frowning. "Sorry. What?"

He repeated, "Take it out. The memory; take it out. Store it. You'll be left with… you'll know that it happened. The knowledge will stay. But the feelings, the minute details…"

Hermione stared at the table; Severus wished he knew what she was thinking. "Gone?" she whispered, her dark eyes darting to his.

He nodded slowly. "I'm sure you've considered this."

She said, "Yes, yes. Except… I don't have a pensieve. I can't afford one. The Ministry has a formal one that we can use if need be but it's…"

"Too public."

"Indeed."

"Minerva's?"

"At Hogwarts? No. No, I can't. The same reasons, I suppose."

"Fair enough."

They sat in silence for a handful of minutes until Severus cleared his throat; there was a grin on his face. "I have one. You may use it."

One tear fell before she could stop it. Hermione closed her eyes, smiled. "I'd like that. I'd like that very much."

.

.

They ignored the ingredient for the day. Instead, he took her to Spinner's End. She held her wand to her temple and drew out the sickly, silvery memory.

It wouldn't fix her, but he hoped it would lessen what pained her.

And hope… hope was new for Severus, who had spent the last few years on his own, re-establishing what it meant to live and breathe and function. He'd needed the time to himself, but as Hermione reached for him and awkwardly embraced him as she wept, he knew that he'd had enough. He wanted to come back.

He even thought that he could come back to _her_.

.

.

The next day, he took her hand and Apparated them both to a greenhouse nestled within Kew Gardens. She, too, was Disillusioned and she thought they made quite a pair. But when they reached where the butterfly resided—it was as blue as blue could ever be—he bade her to remove the spell. Somehow she sensed that he was uncomfortable with her remaining in the state for longer than she needed to be.

"Here," he said, moving to stand behind her. His voice was a slow rumble that began deep within his chest. It unnerved her, his closeness, but she revelled in it.

"Do you see?" Carefully, he reached around her and picked up her hand, pointing with her fingers to where the butterfly was settled. With the other hand, he placed a pair of magical glasses over her eyes; he'd retrieved them from Spinner's End, and they were _perfect_. She could see everything that should have ordinarily been hidden to her.

"I see," she breathed in wonder as she watched the butterfly. It was there in the middle, drinking the nectar – lapping at it, even, she might have said.

"And do you see…" Severus breathed in, and the air felt thick; heavy. "Do you see the proboscis? Do you see the butterfly, how he is… He is on the flower, and his tongue—not his nose, no use calling it a nose, because it isn't, and still tongue suits our purpose here more than _tube_ —is _working_ to draw in the nectar. All of it – the sweetness, the wetness. Do you see how the two halves of it are twisted and curled together? Do you see how the slender tongue devours the nectar? Can you see how he is _sipping_ the nectar, even devouring it?"

She was so aroused and aware and _alive_ that she could barely stand. Her knees were trembling. She moaned, a tiny breathy sound, and he was at her, his chest flush against her back, his arm snaking around to hold her waist.

"Do you see?" he repeated hoarsely, his breath stirring tendrils of hair near her ear. "Do you?"

Hermione smiled lazily, triumphantly. "I do. I see it, oh… I see it."

Abruptly, Severus left her. She felt cold and she mourned the loss of his solidity. "Where—what—where are you?"

His voice came from where the butterfly had been. She'd been too aroused, too unfocused, to realise that _somehow_ , he was extracting what the butterfly had just taken in. It was held in the invisible cage of his hands, and when he released it, it flew into the air, bright blue wings beating with a heavy look of confusion.

She cocked her head and grinned. She rather knew how that felt.

.

.

Hermione Apparated them into her bedroom. He was flustered, and she was wet.

"Let me make the potion," he implored her, invisible hands roaming over her breasts. The rest of him stayed away, stayed far enough so she couldn't feel him pressed against her, but oh, gods, she wanted to. "Let me make it."

"No, no, _no_ ," she exclaimed, head falling back against the door. "No. I want you. Oh, I just—god, I just want you like this. Now." She wouldn't say: 'please'. Not for this, and not _like_ this. "I want you," she repeated, hissing with pleasure when he bent and pressed his lips around where her nipple was. Her singlet was damp and cold on the sensitive skin when he left it, and she smirked, pulling off her own clothes in a few swift movements.

When she was naked before him, she heard, rather than saw, his clothes fall to the floor.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, allowing her to push him onto the bed. "Do you know how alluring you are now? Ride me," he demanded, groaning as she followed him, crawling over his body until he could feel her slick quim pressing down, down, down onto his cock. "Gods—I can't—I won't—Hermione…"

"Shh." Her hips were undulating, and he couldn't tear his eyes away. She bit down on her lower lip, considering, and then her mouth was on his and she was kissing him, sucking his tongue into her mouth at the same time as she sunk down onto him, drawing him into tight, wet heat.

Because he couldn't be seen, Severus arched his back and moaned, his face contorting with pleasure. Because he couldn't be seen, he closed his eyes and cried out her name as she fucked him until he lost all traces of coherent thought.

.

.

One week later, he was visible.

.

.

Two weeks later, she sat him down in the kitchen and took scissors to his hair. He'd let it meander its black, silken way down to his buttocks and she refused to allow him to chop it all off entirely. They compromised; Hermione cut it to the middle of his back, and when he kissed her in the bath that night, she wound his hair around her wrists.

"There," she said, smiling at him from under her lashes. "You are mine, now. You cannot leave. I have you now."

His black eyes burned. Pale, spidery fingers cupped her cheeks, tracing the soft angles of her face. "I have you now," he echoed faintly, and he smiled.

* * *

 _fin._

Original prompt by Amorette, for the 2016 Crossgen fest on Livejournal: SSHG in a research project together, Hermione trying to deny the lust she feels.


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